Exploring and telling the stories of my ancestors - the English and Welsh heritage connections

Saturday, April 30, 2016

.... from the Journal of William Adrian Allery ...

An imagined piece of journalling from my Great Uncle, the first genealogist in our clan.

Prologue

As I entered Uncle William’s bedroom at Larkhall Crescent I could
smell the decay! His poor old body was breaking down! He had been complaining
of no feeling in his legs for weeks! They say you begin to die from the feet
up! Of course I didn’t say any of that, I just kissed his clammy cheek and
gently smoothed his bedcovers around him. A fluttering of that paper skinned
hand and then a sound from purpled lips, no more than a small exhalation. His
eyes beckoned me closer!

“If I could go back … to Dartmouth … to the Church … I would die
happy!” he whispered.

“Do you mean you would be buried there?” I asked.

“No I mean … if I had my time over … I might have been … I might
have been right.”

“Oh not that bloody business about the parish register! Let it go
Uncle!” I sighed, a bit too heavily.

“They were not truthful! You know! We are connected to the Angell
Estate. I just cannot prove it again in my lifetime.” He managed these last
words vehemently and fell back on his pillow gasping for breath.

“Just you never mind now, Uncle, there are some who will follow in
your footsteps.”

In my mind I gathered all of those dusty docs into bundles–
planning to sort them when William’s time was up. It was down to me. A long,
long journey for a humble Tailor who sought to prove his inheritance.

The Journal of William Adrian
Allery

December 1924

I was tired and dusty from
the long train ride from London to Dartmouth. The station platform was almost
empty, except for a few porters vying for business among the meagre crowd.
Spotting a large white card with the word ALLERY in large letters held by a
tall, thin man wearing a pinstripe suit and bowler hat; I pushed my way through
the milling porters to reach my guide. Black clouds were brooding over the
township and I was glad to be heading to Townstal, the countryside of my birth.

As we drove to the parish
church of St. Clement, Townstal, my pin-striped guide gave the history of the
old 12th Century building which had served the small village for centuries.
Irritated with his diatribe, I sat silently nodding. I knew St Clement’s
history already, I was back in my home town.

“After the Reformation
years it is difficult to find reference to St. Clement’s beyond the list of
successive Vicars and the record of Baptisms and Burials. We do know, however,
that the church must have formed a valuable strong point commanding the only
route down to Hardnesse, our present main road not then existing.” He continued
to babble on. I wished I had not hired him at all.

“I am only interested in
the parish registers and any references to marriages between my ancestors in
the 18th century”, I said, rather too loud. After that, all was silent in the
cab.

On arrival at St Clement’s,
I hastily paid the cabbie and the guide and jumped from the cab. Rushing
through the iron gates, I reached the entrance and pushed open the carved
wooden doors. The feel of the wood made my fingertips tingle. I gazed down the
nave to the beautiful stained glass window and walked forward to the altar,
peering from left to right.

As I reached the altar,
memories from my childhood came flooding back. I remembered my own cold words
the last time I had stood here with Sam, and the funerals of our lost siblings
and the six headstones, all in a row!

‘Poor little bugger, never stood a chance. Just one day in this
world and he’s off to another!’

My Dad and I, we heft that sad little coffin easily onto our
shoulders, and together we walk the nave of St Clements, again. Down the black
mile to the cemetery. It doesn’t take long to gently lay James Frances Allery
in his grave! All is quiet!

Rain has gathered in puddles and the wind has whipped the tears
from our faces. Young Samuel and me, we just stand and watch as our weeping Dad
kneels in the mud with his head bowed. I show Sam how to throw small clods of
freshly dug earth onto the coffin; and we listen as it scuds and thuds across
the shining lid.

‘I’m never going to bring a child into this dreadful world!’ I
whisper to Sam. He just huddles closer to me and shrugs his coat close around
himself. His face is grey and he is colder than sorrow.

‘You’ll be going back to St Mary’s tomorrow!’ I say to him as I
take him squarely by his thin shoulders and look hard into his reddened eyes.

‘Me, I’m going into town and find me a job!’ …

“The Altar is unique. It dates from James I and may have replaced
an older one dedicated in 1318 AD by Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, on his only
visit to Dartmouth”, said the Vicar

“Are you the gentleman who
wishes to view the Parish Register?”

I was startled out of my reverie. “I am indeed”, I said eagerly,
turning around in surprise to see the vicar standing right behind me.

“Are you interested in the baptismal records too?” asked the vicar,
pointing to the ancient stone font. By then I was beaming with great
excitement.

“Come, let me show you where the ancient registers are kept, in the
crypt.” Said the vicar.

Finally, back in St Clements, there’s more to the Church than I
remembered. The vicar was striding ahead of me, looking over his shoulder and
beckoning me to follow him down a stone staircase.

All I could do was whisper “Yes”!

My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the crypt as I walked all
the way to the bottom. We were in a large marble pillared room in which I could
see several ancient tombs and effigies of people past. I had never ventured
this deep into the Church. It was like stepping back in time.

To my left, a sliver of yellow light billowed out as the vicar
turned an ancient handle and opened the door to the Chapelry. I smelled the
faint odour of mildew and dust; as I peered at the many shelves of old
registers. The faded titles spanned the centuries; marking the passage of souls
in St Clements.

In the middle of the room was a small raised dais on which was a
reading lectern with a small lamp. One 1700-1710 register was already on the
lectern, dusted and opened at a page with a small white bookmark.

My blood was thumping in my temples and I felt clammy and faint.

“I believe you will find what you are looking for on this page,”
said the vicar leading me to the dais.

The ancient pages were filled with rows of faded ink inscriptions;
the marriage dates and names of many parishioners. I scanned the chronological
list following it all with the tip of my finger, until the name ALLERY almost
leapt off the page. The second last entry!